


we're leaving (our shadows behind us now)

by InevitableConfusion



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InevitableConfusion/pseuds/InevitableConfusion
Summary: iv.The first time it really hits him is when they’re all slowly stumbling to their feet, drinking in the stale air and laughing deliriously because they made it, they’re alive, and he swings his head to the side with a wide grin on his face, opening his mouth to make a stupid joke –But she’s not there.He feels his smile drop and takes a step back, throat tightening as something settles in the pit of his stomach.No, she wouldn’t be there, would she? He left her behind.-----A collection of short stories that I've been neglecting to finish. Probably mostly bellarke.





	1. make you do something you might regret

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, y'all, I have a really bad habit of starting stories and never finishing them. So I finally decided (since it's been literally FOUR YEARS since I've posted anything), I'm just going to take a bunch of my unfinished stories and plop them into a little ficlet collection. Maybe getting some feedback will inspire me to actually finish something, for once - who knows?
> 
> Full disclosure:  
> 1) I'm awful at posting consistently  
> 2) I may continue some of these if I get requests and feel inspired (but I'm not going to force myself to write)  
> 3) Keep an eye out for warnings in the notes & tags
> 
> Thanks, and I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Title from "The Projectionist" by Sleeping At Last, because I love this song to no end, and also I'm bad at titles.

Clarke was yanked roughly out of a particularly good daydream when a voice called her from deeper inside the house. She stilled the charcoal that was in her hand and pulled her eyes away from the window to glance down at her sketchbook. The scene on the page was always the same. The same angles, the same trees, the same bushes. It never changed.

Sighing wistfully, she closed the book and stood from her desk before gently tugging the shutters closed and latching them tightly. Her mother always chided her when she didn’t close the shutters, reminding Clarke of the time when some villain broke through a villager’s window and stole a young girl from her bed.

“Clarke!”

Speaking of her mother…

“I’m coming,” she muttered as she picked up her skirts and moved quickly towards the sound of her mother’s voice. She had desperately wanted to yell her answer, but grit her teeth instead. She could practically _hear_ her mother’s condescending voice in her head. _A lady doesn’t shout._

Clarke walked swiftly into the main room and stopped in front of her mother, dropping her skirts unceremoniously to the dusty floor. She said nothing as she watched the older woman scramble about, tossing seemingly random things into a bag. After a long moment, she spoke up, finally acknowledging her daughter’s presence.

“Dear, there’s been an emergency and I’ve been called in to help.”

Abby Griffin was the village healer, and a very accomplished one at that. She helped run a small clinic on the outskirts of town and was often called in on very short notice for long periods of time. Clarke knew she would not see her mother for the rest of the day, _at least._ She was an extremely dedicated worker, despite not technically being qualified (as women generally did not receive a proper education unless they were nobility) – perhaps this is what drove her to try and prove herself. Regardless of the reason, she had garnered a favorable reputation among the villagers, whose respect had then extended to the family.

Abby hefted the now-full bag over her shoulder and turned to Clarke. “In the meantime, I need you to head into town and help your father run the shop. Can you do that for me?” She folded her lips into her mouth in an attempt to suppress an excited smile and nodded. She loved spending time with her father. “Good,” her mother smiled, reaching up to press a kiss to the younger girl’s forehead before turning and striding out of the room.

Clarke stood there until she heard her mother’s footsteps disappear out the front door. Once she was sure she was gone, the blonde ran back into her room and started gathering what she needed, eager to make the trek into town.

After gaining a good amount of respect from the villagers, Abby had begun attempting to raise Clarke as a ‘lady,’ claiming that she wanted her daughter to live a better, privileged life. _“Perhaps you could even become a noblewoman,”_ she had exclaimed. Clarke was not nearly so excited.

Noblewomen did nothing but sit around all day. They could not speak their minds. They could not go anywhere without an escort. They could not even slouch. Their lives were filled with constant scrutiny that was hidden behind a veil of polite small-talk and false smiles. No adventure. Just the same thing, day-in and day-out.

How boring.

After a moment of thought, she grabbed her sketchbook and shoved it securely into the bodice of her dress, knowing her mother would not approve and yet not finding the will to care.

She was not a lady.

.

.

.

The walk into town had been long and rather unforgiving as the mid-summer sun beat down on her skin. It was times like that where she wished her family at least owned a horse – or really any animal that could carry her there faster. But after about an hour, trees became scarcer and the terrain finally started leveling out. Soon enough, the well-worn dirt path opened up to a wide gravel road, and she couldn’t help but smile.

She made her way through the open gate and took a deep breath, indulging her senses for a moment. Families with small children running about. Young adults like her stumbling from vendor-to-vendor. Older couples resting on the lip of the stone fountain. Stall-owners calling out excitedly to potential customers. The rhythmic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. The colorful prints of fabric. The smell of mutton and ale and other delicious foods wafting into her nose. The sound of laughter echoing all around her.

The hustle and bustle of the marketplace always sent a rush of excitement through her, tingling right down to her toes.

She caught sight of her father’s stall and meandered toward it, glancing in other shops and greeting familiar faces along the way. Once she stepped inside the small lean-to, she dropped her pack loudly onto the counter and grinned when her father’s face poked out from the back.

“Clarke!” his eyes sparkled, crinkling at the corners, and she walked around to the back door, letting herself in. She hugged him tightly and he ruffled her hair when she pulled away. “Hey, Princess. You here to help me out today?”

She nodded, cheeks starting to hurt from smiling so much. She rarely got to see her father – he was always gone before she woke in the morning and he always came back long after dinner, sometimes after she had gone to bed. Frankly, she missed him.

“The walk here could not have been easy, especially in this heat,” he remarked.

She threw him a teasing look. “Please. It was nothing.”

Her father smirked and rolled his eyes, then started listing off tasks he needed her help with.

.

.

.

Clarke sat at the counter with her sketchbook open to a blank page and a piece of charcoal resting comfortably between her fingers, glancing out again into the plaza. She heaved a frustrated sigh at the lack of people she saw.

They had reached the evening lull, when most customers were heading home for supper. Her own father had gone out to get them food, and thank goodness he was; her stomach grumbled loudly and she looked down at it, pressing a hand to her mid-section in an attempt to ease her hunger.

A small noise made her look up and she watched as the people in the stall across from her worked to pack up their items. Most of the vendors had left by now, though her father insisted they stay open for the small crowd that would filter out of the pub in an hour or two.

Her gaze slowly drifted upward until it settled on a large building in the distance. The royal castle was always a sight to behold. The sun had started to set above it, bathing the gray stone slabs in an ethereal light. Her gaze barely made out the mile-high walls and guard towers that stretched endlessly into the sky in a display that was both intimidating and magnificent. The walls were not always there, she remembered with a pang of sadness.

A certain calm had settled over her and she briefly thought about sketching the castle. She tossed the idea aside, though, knowing that half of her book was filled with drawings of the castle. She wanted something new.

Movement caught her attention and she brought her gaze back down to the plaza that stretched in front of her. A tall figure in a dark cloak stood a good distance away, their back turned to her. She narrowed her eyes at the person, trying to make out anything against the sunlight that nearly blinded her. She squinted more, when suddenly, they turned around.

It was a man, probably not much older than her. His gaze caught hers and she drew in a sharp breath.

She sat up straight, frozen in her seat. The world melted away around her, until she saw nothing but his eyes, dark and endless and intense, drawing her in. She didn’t even care that he’d caught her staring, she just wanted to get a better look at him. As if reading her thoughts, he started walking toward her, never moving his gaze from hers, and she felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness rush through her veins.

Time moved slower and slower with every step he took. She couldn’t breathe.

“Hello.”

All at once, his cordial greeting snapped her out of the strange trance she was in, and it took much more focus than she liked to admit to breathe normally. Her eyes flicked around the stranger’s face – or, what she could make out, at least, his hood casting a shadow over his cheeks.

“Hood, please.”

She hadn’t even realized she was speaking until the words hit her ears. The man stopped at the edge of her shop and she could barely make out the confused look he threw her. “What?”

“If you want to come into the shop,” she explained, her voice surprisingly steady, “you need to remove your hood.”

She didn’t feel the need to mention how much she wanted to get a clear view of his face.

He stood there long enough to make her wonder if he was going to turn and leave, but then he reached up with gloved hands and brought his hood down.

Excitement jumped in her stomach as her eyes drank in his features for the first time. He had olive skin, faint freckles splattered across his face. A mop of dark, unwashed hair sat messily on his head, curled bangs falling into heavy eyes. If she looked close enough, she could see a few faint scars on his face.

He was very handsome.

Without another word, he stepped into the stall and started browsing the items off to the side. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his profile, a strange unease settling into her stomach. Something… something about this man made her nervous.

A cold breeze washed over her skin and whatever had been about to surface suddenly vanished. How it managed to get so cold when it had been so hot before, she’d never know. Another breeze ghosted past her, making goosebumps dance across her skin and a shiver run up her spine.

“Are you cold?”

She snapped her attention back to the man, who was staring openly at her. She felt strangely exposed under his gaze. Could he hear her heart pounding? It sounded awfully loud in her ears.

She was quiet for too long, because he spoke again. “Relax, Princess, it was just a question.”

She bristled at his comment. “Don’t call me Princess.” That nickname was reserved for her father, and _only_ her father.

He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye, and a new wave of adrenaline pumped through her veins. She knew that look. He stepped closer to her and her shoulders tensed, bracing herself in anticipation of what he was about to say.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he placed a small vial of medicine in front of her. She stared at it for a moment, then looked back up at the man. He simply raised his eyebrows, that smirk still on his face.

“Two coins,” she said cautiously. He pulled out the correct amount of money and placed it on the counter, grabbing the vial and putting it in a pouch beneath his cloak.

“See you later, Princess.”

And with a wink, he turned and walked out of the shop. She bit down on her tongue to keep from yelling at his retreating form, and watched him until he’d disappeared behind a wall. Letting out a shaky breath, she looked down at her sketchbook, startling at how hard she’d been gripping her charcoal. She felt itchy, like she couldn’t sit still, and it took several slow breaths through her nose to finally calm her racing heart.

She didn’t like that man.

_And yet…_

Clarke started to sketch the outline of a face; a strong jaw and freckles dusting across high cheekbones. A wide nose, a scar above his lip, a mouth quirked into a teasing smile. Messy curls and dark, beautiful, dangerous eyes. She moved the charcoal quickly across the paper, trying to capture the picture of him before it vanished from her mind. The mysterious man in the dark cloak.

She definitely wouldn’t be forgetting him anytime soon.


	2. make you do something you might regret (part ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There's a fair bit of violence in this chapter; skip to the end notes if you want an abridged version of the fight.
> 
> So, of course I didn't do anything with this plot for like 5 years, and then as soon as I edit and post part 1, an idea pops into my head. I promise these aren't all gonna be set in the same universe - next chapter will be something totally different!
> 
> Also, I didn't do much proof-reading, so ignore any glaring mistakes. Enjoy!

Clarke sprinted as fast as she could, heart pounding with each step and breath ragged in her ears. The darkness of night surrounded her like a blanket, the air cool and wet on her skin. Distant shouts were growing louder, sending a new spike of fear down her spine.

She pushed forward faster, her bare legs bruised and bloodied from the thorny undergrowth. The ground was soft beneath her feet, still loose from the rain the day before. Her toes dug into the mud, trying to get as much traction as possible, but she knew they were catching up to her. She’d stopped trying to be quiet at this point.

She should have listened to her mother, should have heeded her warnings. But Clarke fell asleep with the shutters open.

Now her father was dead, and she was running for her life.

She knew her captors were catching up to her – she could hear them crashing through the forest not far behind – but even though her legs screamed in agony, she kept running.

They would catch her, that much was inevitable. She didn’t even know where she was, much less where she could go. They would grab her and drag her back to their camp, probably to ransom her mother for money they didn’t have, or sell her off to someone in the black market, or…

Well. She didn’t want to think about it too much.

But damned if she wasn’t going to put up a fight. If she was going down, she was going to go kicking and screaming. What would happen if they decided she was too much trouble? Would she even be alive tomorrow? Maybe, but the last girl who disappeared from her village was never heard from again. A sick voice in her head wondered if she would even _want_ to be alive, once they caught her. She tripped on an exposed root, cursing loudly before regaining her footing; blood trickled down her toes, warm and sticky.

Then, up ahead, she noticed a flicker of light, and a small clearing appeared between the trees. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to help reorient herself. Hope sparked in her chest. Maybe if she was far enough ahead of them, she could scramble up a tree, or scamper off in a new direction quietly. She twisted her head around, trying to gauge how far behind her they were, wondering if –

She let out a yelp as she hit something, nearly falling to the ground. Strong arms wrapped around her to steady her, and she realized with sudden, horrible clarity that she had run full-force into a man.

_No. No, no, no!_ How could they have gotten here before her?

Without another thought, she leaned back and thrust her knee into his stomach. He let her go with a startled grunt, doubling over in pain, but she knew she had lost her lead. She was going to have to stare death in the face. Chest heaving and legs nearly collapsing from sheer exhaustion, she watched the man in the dim glow of the firelight – _wait._

Firelight?

For the first time, she noticed the makeshift camp set up in the clearing, a small fire on its way to burning out. She looked back at the man and froze, familiarity curling in her gut as she took in the inky black curls and sharp jawline. Then he looked up, a grimace on his freckled face, and all doubts were wiped from her mind. It was the mystery man who came into the shop a few weeks ago.

“Nice to see you too, Princess.”

The man grunted, taking a few deep breaths before straightening up. He gave her a once-over, concern wrinkling his brow. She knew she must look a mess. But before either of them could say anything else, her captors crashed into the clearing.

Her eyes snapped to them, gut twisting violently. There were four of them, armed to the teeth with weapons, looking dirty and haggard and _furious_. Her gaze locked on the leader, who was staring at her with a hungry fire in his eyes. Staring death in the face.

“What’s going on here, McCreary?”

The leader – _McCreary_ – slid his eyes over to the mystery man and gave a wry smile that made her want to throw up. “Our play-thing escaped. Why don’t you just hand her over and we’ll be on our way?”

It was silent for a moment, and for a short, terrifying second, Clarke wondered if he would hand her over. But slowly, deliberately, the man moved in front of her. Relief washed over her. McCreary frowned.

“Come on, Blake, just give her to us and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Leave.”

The man’s voice was dark and dangerous, sending a chill across her skin. The muscles in his back were tense, ready to spring into action. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither backing down, neither speaking. Then, McCreary turned to one of his men and nodded his head toward them, and all hell broke loose.

Two of her captors charged the dark-haired man, knives drawn, but the man was faster. He drove his fist hard into the blonde guy’s stomach and then kicked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling onto his back. Then, in one swift movement, he pulled a small dagger from his boot and spun around to the bald man, plunging the dagger into his thigh. The man screamed and stumbled back, hand hovering around the dagger lodged deep in the muscle above his knee.

The blonde man had gotten back up by this point and dove for the dark-haired man, managing to nick his arm with the knife before he moved out of the way. But with practiced ease, the dark-haired man latched onto the guy’s wrist and twisted hard, and Clarke winced as she heard the bones snap. He cried out, dropping his knife instantly.

She was watching in awe as the dark-haired man tackled McCreary, punching him across the face with a resounding _crack_ , when suddenly an arm was wrapped around her neck and cold steel was pressed against her cheek.

“Well, look at all the trouble you’ve caused.”

She breathed harshly, twisting her face to look at the man, ignoring the way the knife bit into her cheek. He was blonde, not much older than her, and tall. She thought she remembered one of them calling him _Dax_ before, but she couldn’t be sure. His mouth twisted into a smirk and there was something cruel in his eyes. He tightened his grip around her neck, cutting off her airflow, and she clawed at the skin of his arm in an attempt to get him to release. His smirk morphed into a wicked grin as he dug the knife further into her cheek, and she felt a trickle of blood trail down her jaw. Her vision grew blurry.

“I’m going to enjoy thi–“

And suddenly, there was a dagger clean through Dax’s eye. He crumpled to the ground and Clarke fell to her knees, coughing violently. Still gasping, she twisted to look at him, lying in a motionless heap on the ground, eye wide and unseeing, the dark-haired man’s dagger still buried in his face. She felt bile rise in her throat and tore her eyes away.

McCreary and his two men were stumbling to their feet, backing toward the edge of the clearing. Blood was pouring from McCreary’s broken nose. The dark-haired man stood rooted to the ground where he was, hardly a scratch on him other than the wound across his bicep. He was still tense, fists clenched at his sides, knuckles bloodied.

But they knew that the fight was over. McCreary glared, pinching his nose shut. “Fuck you, Bellamy.” And then he turned and they were gone.

_Bellamy._

Clarke’s heart stuttered and she felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck as she watched him examine the cut on his arm.

She knew that name. Everyone knew that name. She knew it from the whispers in the streets around town. She knew it from the stories the orators told in the marketplace. She knew it from the walls that were built around the castle; from the increase in guards that patrolled the grounds. The name of the most dangerous, most wanted outlaw in the land. He turned to look at her, eyes heavy and guarded.

Bellamy Blake.

The man who killed the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, fight scenes are so hard to write ~
> 
> Summary of the fight for those who skipped it:  
> 1) Bellamy stabs a guy in the thigh, breaks the other guy's wrist, and then tackles & punches McCreary and breaks his nose  
> 2) Dax chokes Clarke and gets a dagger shoved through his face, killing him


	3. i'll be there for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roommates AU. 'Nuff said.

Bellamy pushed through the door to his apartment, shaking the water from his hair and dropping his bag on the floor with a heavy _thunk_. His papers were probably soaked, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

He stumbled into the living room and nearly stopped short when he saw Clarke curled up on one end of the sofa, nose buried in a book and a steaming mug of tea on the end table beside her. She looked up at him and smiled, and her face lit up like the fucking _sun_ , and his stomach gave an uncomfortable swoop.

_She’s in love with you_ , Octavia’s voice echoed in his head. He pushed the thought aside. This was not something he could deal with right now.

Instead, Bellamy dragged his feet over to the couch and sat down beside his roommate with a long-suffering sigh, leaning his head back and staring up at the ceiling. He felt – rather than saw – her move her feet to the ground, and that was more than enough invitation for him to shift so his head was in her lap. She carded one hand through his wet curls, eyes flying over the page of her book, and he closed his eyes, finally feeling the weight of the day lifting off his shoulders. God, he needed this. A few moments later, he heard her book close softly and her other hand came down to rest on his chest. She scratched her nails gently against his scalp and he bit his tongue to keep from making an embarrassing noise.

“Hey. Rough day?”

“Yeah.”

She hummed in sympathy. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He swallowed thickly, thinking back to the conversation he’d just had with Octavia. The one where she’d called him out on his very non-platonic feelings for his roommate. And, well. She wasn’t wrong. But his sister had also called him an idiot and told him point-blank that Clarke loved him too, and he’d see that if they both managed to pull their heads out of their asses, and now his head was reeling. And that was something he definitely, _absolutely_ could not talk to Clarke about.

“Later,” he sighed.

“Okay.” She was quiet for a moment, hand still brushing through his hair, and he’d almost believe she had gone back to her book if he couldn’t feel her staring at him. “Do you want me to make some mac n’ cheese?”

His groan was immediate. Clarke was a horrible cook, and he almost never let her near the kitchen for fear of burning their apartment to the ground. (In fact, she’d nearly done just that when she decided to try and make stove-top popcorn a few months ago. Bellamy was not happy when he got that call.) But damned if she didn’t make some _fantastic_ mac n’ cheese. “Yes, please.”

She gave an amused huff and patted his chest. But when he turned his head and buried his nose in her stomach, he heard a soft, sharp gasp, and it made him pause. His heart rate picked up. Did he imagine that?

Before he could think about it too much, her hand was on his back, pushing insistently to get him to sit up. “Just… go take a shower so you don’t catch a cold, and I’ll get started on dinner.”

Okay, he _definitely_ wasn’t imagining the slight waver in her voice. He stood up and she brushed past him to head into the kitchen, not looking at him. But he could see the flush rising on the back of her neck. His mouth felt dry.

Octavia couldn’t have been right… could she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, but I'll probably continue this one later. Just wanted something light & fluffy today :)


	4. til the sirens sound, i'm safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I am absolutely LOVING season 6 - it has some of my favorite episodes of the entire series - but a part of me can't help but worry that they're gonna pull a season 4 finale and separate my babes for a long time again, and I am ANXIOUS Y'ALL.
> 
> (I'm holding out hope because we haven't heard the "you called me every day and then left me to die" convo from the trailer yet, and then I cry even more because the last time they talked about the radio calls was in the premier, which is like, symbolic or some shit)
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Here's a super angsty piece I wrote shortly after the season 4 finale because I was feeling MANY THINGS. I intended to turn it into a full fic and obviously didn't, so enjoy!

The first time it _really_ hits him is when they’re all slowly stumbling to their feet, drinking in the stale air and laughing deliriously because _they made it, they’re alive_ , and he swings his head to the side with a wide grin on his face, opening his mouth to make a stupid joke –

But she’s not there.

He feels his smile drop and takes a step back, throat tightening as something settles in the pit of his stomach.

No, she wouldn’t be there, would she? He left her behind.

He clenches his fists. The air grows heavy in his lungs and soon Bellamy feels like he can’t breathe again, like he’s choking on nothing, but it’s _not_ nothing, he knows exactly what it is. He turns back to the group and sees that they’ve all grown quiet, a somber feeling settling over them like a blanket. Raven is standing stock-still, muscles tense and face hard as she glares at nothing. He thinks he sees a glimmer of tears in her eyes, but he can’t be sure. Monty and Harper shift imperceptibly closer, shoulders slumped and eyes cast on the floor, likely thinking of Jasper and all of the others who stayed behind. Their hands brush ever-so-slightly, but they don’t reach for each other. Even Murphy, Emori, and Echo are quiet and still, afraid to disturb the atmosphere.

The silence is too much. It feels like a goddamn _wake._

Raven is the first to move, turning swiftly on her heel and marching off toward the living quarters as quickly as her leg allows. The others slowly shuffle after her, still not saying a word. Bellamy casts one last glance at the empty space beside him, looking for a girl who should be there but _isn’t_ , before following after them.

He sees the swing of Raven’s dark ponytail dart into the first room they come across and she all but slams the door behind her, the sound reverberating loudly in the empty metal hallway. Echo takes the next one, and then Murphy and Emori, and then Monty and Harper, who look up at him and offer a slight nod before shutting the door. Bellamy turns and steps into the room just across the hall, closing the door behind him and hearing the soft _click_ of the auto-lock.

And then he’s alone.

He stands there for a long moment, numb, eyes raking over the abandoned living space but not really _seeing_ anything. He walks over to the small desk against the wall and moves the metal chair out of his way. The desk is still littered with a mess of personal items; a tablet, some parchment and crayons, a genuine, honest-to-God _paperback book_.

He picks up a picture frame from the corner of the desk and stares down at a family of faces he’s never seen before. A little girl with hair as golden as the sun and shining blue eyes is smiling back up at him, and it feels almost cruel. The little girl is probably dead now. Killed as the ship blew up as it entered Earth’s atmosphere, or shot by the grounders after breathing in the fresh air for the first time. Or disintegrated in a wave of radiation, screaming in agony as she died, alone and afraid. He sets the frame back down.

A burning, white-hot anger suddenly sparks deep in his chest and fills his veins with liquid fire. Snarling through his teeth, he throws his weight into the desk. Two of its legs lift off the ground for a brief moment and some of the clutter jumps, but nothing falls. His eyes catch on a small blue vase that had been teetering on the edge of the desk, probably one of the little girl’s craft projects. He picks it up and hurls it against the far wall, a growl tearing from his throat, and watches as it shatters on impact, tiny pieces of painted blue clay raining down on the floor.

His chest still burns. He takes a stumbling step away and his foot smacks against the metal desk chair, so he jerks his leg out and kicks it hard. The chair skids for a few feet before toppling over, but that’s not enough, so he picks it up by the legs and slams it back against the ground with another yell. And he does it again. And again, and again.

_It’s not fair._

He leaves a sizeable dent in the chair this time, but it’s still not enough. He picks up the chair and swings it across the top of the desk, flinging everything to the ground with a crash. The glass of the picture frame cracks as it hits the floor.

The rage is a fire now, consuming his heart like it consumed _her._ He bashes the chair against the wall, the sound of metal-on-metal echoing in his ears with each swing.

_It’s not fair._

_It’s not fair._

_It’s not fair!_

The sight of the metal chair snapping in half is a surprise, but his rage doubles-down and he throws the chair legs further into the room before spinning around and slamming his fist into the wall with a scream. His knuckles split open and tears spring to his eyes at the shock that runs up his arm.

This is what he needed. This is what he wanted. This is what he deserved. Pain.

He draws his fist back and slams it into the wall again, and again, and again. His fingers feel numb, and it’s only the thought of wasting more of their limited medical supplies on him that finally gets him to stop.

He stands there, breathing loud in his ears, as the fire in his chest dies suddenly; but as it retreats, it takes more than it gave and steals away all of his warmth, leaving him feeling cold and empty. A supernova exploding and expanding until it collapses under its own weight, leaving only a black hole in its place. Blood inches down his fingers, sticky and warm. After making so much noise, the silence around him is oppressive, and he has nothing to distract him. Nothing to keep his mind from racing.

_Why?_

Despair seeps into his bones.

_Why am I alive?_

The tears that gather behind his eyes are no longer just from the pain.

_Why am I alive…_

He chokes on a sob and crumples, hands clenching into fists as he presses his forehead to the cool metal wall. _Together_ , he’d always told her. They’d do it _together._ They’d get through it _together._ They’d make it _together._ And yet, in a cruel twist of fate… he’s alone.

He’s alive, and she’s dead.

He takes in a deep breath and lets out a loud cry, tears dripping off his chin as he presses his forehead further into the wall. He knows that he has to get up soon; that they have a long fight ahead of them if they’re gonna survive the next five years up here. But for now, for today, just for a few hours, Bellamy decides it’s okay to give in; to turn off his brain and grieve for the girl he loved.

The girl he left behind.

He sobs until his throat is raw and his tears have run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come cry with me on tumblr: inevitableconfusion


End file.
